Until You Loved Me (Silver Springs #3)(63)

“I’m easy to please,” he muttered, but his heart obviously wasn’t in that statement. It took most of the meal to get him to put aside the fact that she wouldn’t accept what he’d bought at Cartier. But she felt she’d accomplished it by the time she told him about the encapsulation technique she’d been helping to develop at the BDC.

“Your eyes light up when you talk about your work,” he said as if he reluctantly found that interesting.

She took a drink of water. After being sick so recently, she had to be careful; she wasn’t going to eat anything other than the soup and pomegranate salad she’d prepared—and she’d gone light on the soup, since it was so rich. “What can I say? I love what I do. I believe immunology will change the world. I can’t wait to see a cure for diabetes—and so many other diseases.”

“You’re nothing like the other women I’ve known.”

“How am I different?” She grinned. “Let me guess. Less silicone? No spray tan?”

His mouth quirked. “Forget it. Now I’m not going to give you the compliment I was about to.”

She sobered. “What?”

“You care about the things that really matter.”

She hadn’t been far-off, but she didn’t point that out. From what she’d heard, LA was the most superficial city in the world—although she couldn’t imagine Miami being far behind. “Thank you.” She reached across the table to grip his wrist. “I’m sorry about the gift. I know my reaction seemed a little...unnecessarily strict. But it’s important for you to be able to trust me and my motives. If you feel I’m after something or getting more out of the relationship than you are, it won’t work.”

When his gaze lowered to her hand, she grew self-conscious. She’d touched him spontaneously, the way she might’ve touched anyone in the fervor of the moment. She really wanted to convince him of her sincerity. But it was a bit presumptuous, and the level of energy that flowed through that single point of contact wasn’t like anything she’d ever experienced before.

Suddenly self-conscious—and far too aware of him in a physical sense—she drew back.

“I should be able to give you anything I want,” he said.

She took another drink of water. “Because...”

“That’s my decision, not yours.”

*

Hudson liked Ellie. She didn’t always say what he wanted to hear, but her basic decency—her kindness and fairness—came through, despite the fact that she wasn’t willing to give him whatever he wanted. He felt comfortable with her, normal in a way he couldn’t feel normal when he was constantly being catered to and complimented and indulged.

He enjoyed watching her expressions and mannerisms while they finished eating—enjoyed the conversation, too. She knew so much about so many subjects. Academic subjects, anyway. She knew nothing about football. That was the great irony. She looked at him blankly whenever he brought up the game he loved—what most other people wanted him to talk about.

“What’s a draw play again?” She held her glass as she sat across from him, awaiting his reply. They’d just had homemade blackberry pie—which was about the best dessert he’d ever eaten—and were finished with their meal but still talking. She seemed interested in what he was saying; he had to give her credit for that. But she didn’t get certain nuances.

“Don’t worry about draw play.” He shouldn’t have mentioned that when he’d been explaining how he’d hurt his knee four years ago. “It was a broken play, meaning the play never worked. I had to run instead of handing the ball off, and I couldn’t slide to avoid the tackle. We were in a third down situation with long yardage, so I had to go for the marker. Even then, I would’ve been okay, except Jason Strombach came in with a late hit. I still don’t know what the hell he was thinking. I was clearly out of bounds.”

“He tore your meniscus.”

“Yes.”

“That’s terrible.” She looked concerned, but Hudson suspected that only the result—that someone tore his meniscus—made any sense to her. “So you had to have surgery? Were they able to repair it?”

“I missed most of the season but returned for the final two games.”

“How many games are there?”

“Not including preseason, there are seventeen weeks. Each team—thirty-two in all—plays sixteen games.”

“So you missed eleven games because of this...Jason guy?”

“Jason guy?” Hudson started laughing. “You mean Jason Strombach? The best safety in the league?”

When he kept laughing and couldn’t seem to stop, she rolled her eyes and got up to collect their plates.

“Sorry,” he said, trying to bring himself under control. “You could talk about a lot of things I wouldn’t understand, so I’m not trying to make you feel stupid—if it’s even possible to make someone so smart feel stupid. It’s just that most people you meet wouldn’t understand immunology—not unless they’d been trained in it—but they would understand the game of football.”

“I’ll learn it,” she said.

He got up to carry the rest of the dishes to the sink. “I have no doubt. All you’d have to do is watch a few games with some interest.”